At home last night, we opened a bottle of 2013 dry riesling to commemorate the acceptance of my one hundredth poem by a magazine. It gives me no small pleasure to toast such a milestone, small though it may be: ten years ago, I had published perhaps seven poems, all in magazines with very limited circulation, and had no reason to believe anyone would ever wish to publish more. Five years ago, I thought it might be time to quit; the world has no shortage of poets, though it does have a shortage of other kinds of voices. And so, last night, we toasted the tenacity of the minor poet and the slow fruitfulness that comes from participating in a tradition. (For a reflection on such participation click the picture or here.)
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